How to Be Cool :Or Die Trying:
by Phoenix Satori
Summary: A comprehensive look at the finer points of Cool. By Soul Eater Evans, PhD. ::MakaSoul OneShots::
1. pinstripes

So, Soul Eater is pretty much perfect. There isn't a character I don't like in that entire damned show, and I've got fic ideas coming out of orifices I wasn't aware I had.

I want more. I neeeeeeed more. Gimme.

DOI.

This story happened after a HORRIFYING BRAIN INJURY. Flame the head trauma if you take issue with any of the events/characterizations/tense-problems in this fic.

That is all.

* * *

She's all grown up now; slender and lithe where she had been thin and lanky. Her face, appealingly tan from her travels, dons a wide, open grin. Even as he appraises her, he's scrutinizing the still-darker young man at her elbow, laughing at some shared, private joke.

Soul's heart leaps up into his throat.

He doesn't possess the capability –like _she_ does—to detect the minutiae of soul wavelengths, but he can tell from the way they stand together that this foreign male is her new weapon.

Across the room, Shinigami-sama beckons him forward, and he moves in the direction of his meister automatically, though his eyes never stray from the ash-blonde, emerald-eyed girl at the center of the room, who doesn't appear to realize he's even there. His mind boggles at this notion; their souls had once been inextricably intertwined -a bond he's always imagined would be -at least in a vestigial sense- permanent, unbreakable. He'd lived and breathed for her once, wanting the status of Death Scythe as much for his own prestige as for her single-minded determination to make him great. Even now, years after he'd been passed unto the care of Death, he'd been able to sense her before she even walked into the room, had felt the irresistible pull of her uniquely brilliant soul energy, reaching with invisible fingers and wrapping around him like the warmth of a blanket.

She hasn't so much as glanced in his direction, hasn't given so much as a furrowed brow to indicate she might feel _him_ on some residual, subconscious level. She resonates with someone else these days; she is –quite literally—on an entirely different wavelength.

And then _it_ happens: Maka disentangles herself from the taller man at her side and makes as if to flounce away, perhaps to mingle, perhaps to make a plate of food for herself (and, his stomach clenching at the thought, perhaps a plate for her companion, too), when the weapon deftly catches her wrist as she turns and pulls her into a brief embrace, punctuated by her startled laughter and culminating in his lips meeting hers.

Soul stops in his tracks and feels the long-dormant darkness in his blood thrum blackly. He's dimly aware of the poppy number playing in the background abruptly shivering into a velvety jazz arrangement, and that vague, faraway sound in his mind might be a (once-familiar?) nefarious snigger…

Maka isn't pulling away; if anything, she pushes herself closer, her hands unabashedly posited on a pin-striped chest, the hands of The Other firmly, cozily content at the base of her spine, just shy of impropriety. The Maka of Old would _not_ have allowed such a blatantly undecorous display in mixed company; _his_ Maka had commanded respect, had balked or shied away from such...exhibitionism.

Soul doesn't feel his hands clenching into fists, only dimly aware of himself as he starts toward the pair, stride caught somewhere between tentative and determined. If Shinigami-sama's still attempting to flag him down, Soul is deaf to his summons.

He arrives just in time for them to break away from each other to the gut-churning sound of Maka's contented sigh. He grits his teeth and waits for her to slip out of the Other weapon's hold so he can make a quick sweep for the guy's jugular with his forearm. Or what _would_ be his forearm, after he's traded blade for flesh and bone again.

When she –at long last—pulls away and turns, however, it's in _his_ direction, placing her firmly (and inconveniently) between him and his target. He freezes.

She blinks once, twice, cocking her head neatly to one side. How long has it been, he wonders (achingly), since he's been the sole focus of those green, green eyes? How long has it been since she'd smacked him in the head with a book for being particularly obtuse, how long since she'd casually pillowed her head on his lap on the couch and fallen asleep after a long, trying day of lessons and the terror of newly-liberated, morbidly powerful Kishin and the unwitting betrayal of cherished friends and the inept attempts of a father-turned-Death Scythe to make up for his chronic short-comings? How long, how long, how _long_ has it been since she'd stumbled into his room late-late that one evening and traced the length of his scar from base to apex, silently crying and whisperingly promising never to allow such a thing ever to happen again while he pretended to be asleep and willfully resisted the impulse to pull her into bed with him and hold her close—

"Do I know you?" His arm falls numbly to his side and he stares at her in dumb shock. Even if he's grown up, filled out, _changed_, become a card-carrying member of the Cool Elite; even if it's been years since their souls had occupied the same space, is it possible that she coud have _forgotten_ him?

The jazz begins skipping cacophonously; he feels hot, he feels _small_, he feels a little crazy. After another dark, dangerous moment passes between them and Maka's eyes still refuse to show even a glimmer of recognition, he finds a quiet chuckle bubbling up out of him, eventually spilling over into full-blown maniacal laughter. (The sound of his mirth is sinister and…and somehow _different_ from how he's used to hearing himself sound.)

What the hell does he care if this little girl remembers him or not? She isn't his meister anymore, she'd clearly abandoned him, discarded him, _forgotten_ him, and clearly their brief episode together growing up meant nothing.

He's powerful, so powerful now; she's served her purpose, brought him to his full potential, surrendered him to someone _worthy _of wielding him. Now no one can touch him; now he's an instrument of Death –literally as well as figuratively—and he is altogether impervious to the perforations she may have left in other, lesser beings' souls, where once she might have been the binding element holding them together.

The simple, hysterical truth is that he doesn't care about her. He never had. She'd been a means to an end, and he doesn't _care_ if she lives or dies. In fact, now that it's crossed his mind, he doesn't think _anyone'_d worry themselves overmuch if she happened to drop dead here on the spot, or if he strikes out against her. Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to show her just how easily he can let go of _her_, how quickly he can forget she ever existed at all…

He moves before he's really even fully thought it through, his arms arcing through the air in practiced parabolic perfection; the symmetry would have made Kid proud.

No sooner does Maka's face split into horrified surprise than her new weapon has appeared before her, a sibilant whisper heralding the man's presence the instant before he collides with the curved red-on-black blade of—

_What?_ His mind screams, suddenly terribly conscious of the figure before him, taller and older and somehow _not _a stranger, with a shock of platinum crowning his head and a fierce, protective intensity burning in his claret-crimson eyes…

"Soul!" Comes Maka's anxious tenor from behind her weapon, tiny hands alighting on the Other's shoulder even as the lethal weapon keeps its focus on _him_, even as _his_ eyes drop to focus on his hands, which (he discovers, to his horror) are proportionally _wrong_ and tiny and taloned and _red_. Shocked, terrified, disbelieving, he skims one sickly-smooth hand across his face, finding it too round and too slick and curiously, impossibly adorned by a pair of twisted, spiral-divoted horns-

* * *

_"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"_

_"Soul! Soul, are you okay? SOUL!"_

* * *

He snaps awake with a jolt, rocketing jarringly to one side and reeling as his whole world tilts and spins violently in the instant before he smacks into something cold and hard.

"_Soul_! Black Star, get the nurse!" There are warm hands at his shoulder and against his hip, the pressure of shifting weight, the residual horror of a nightmare—"Soul! Soul, can you hear me? It's Maka, please say something!" And that voice, that wonderfully familiar, sweetly concerned voice, saying his name, identifying him, recognizing him, substantiating him.

"Maka…" He manages, weakly, belatedly realizing he'd fallen from his bed to the floor. In the infirmary.

Naked but for his boxers and the fresh gauze around his lower abdomen and left arm, he becomes gradually conscious of just how frigid the floor beneath him is, but attempting to sit up to escape the frozen linoleum turns out to be a Bad Idea; almost before he's even moved, he's wincing and falling backward -painfully- as he aggravates injuries he doesn't fully remember receiving.

"So uncool…" He's startled by the resonance of soft, grave laughter and cautiously cracks his eyes open to peer up at his meister, hunched over him with unshed tears sparkling in her too-bright eyes.

"You're an _idiot_, Soul. One of these days you're going to realize that as partners, we're in this _together_. Let me take the hit _with you_, you moron." He doesn't tell her that the thought of her cut up and in agony makes him want to die. He doesn't intimate his relief at hearing her call him 'partner,' doesn't mention the horrifying dream he'd just had about having lost her forever, about the madness buried (not-so-)deeply within having convinced him to bring her harm –even in a subconscious, make-believe world that would never -_could_ never- be. He doesn't share with her the bewildering dichotomy of his two dream-selves, the one scorned, forgotten, possessive, and blindingly powerful; the other still imperfect, but effortlessly close with her, clearly besotted, and wholly unwilling to let any harm come to her. He isn't sure how to reconcile these two conflicting personas, and vaguely disconcerted that the common element in both equations seems to be _her_.

"How totally uncool would it be for a guy not to stick up for a girl?" He grins mischievously up at her. "You're such frail creatures…"

Ah, and there's his much beloved Maka-Chop…

"Soul…" He slips back easily into his routine of ignoring the way his soul flares at the slightest emotion in her voice. "Baka…" She slumps over him, enveloping him, and he lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding in when her forehead comes to rest lightly against the juncture of his collarbone and chest. The warmth of her breath fans over his (yet-sensitive) skin, and spots of moisture drop (one, two, three) against his pec, and (very much intentionally,) he reaches toward her with his free hand, weakly resting it against the back of her head.

Effortless. Comfortable. Necessary.

_This _is peace, he reflects, and more importantly, _this's reality_. He'd resolved not to turn into the destitute, bitter creature that bastard-imp seems so eager for him to become. And if the way to power means separation from Maka –in _any_ capacity—then he doesn't want it.

Of course, whatever hold the imp may or may not have over _him_, his meister was another story altogether. His Maka's an unstoppable force of nature, a creature of light, warmth, and compassion, a girl of vibrant, powerful wrath; his partner, his friend, _his_, for as long as she'll have him.

When he drifts helplessly back to sleep, it is dreamless, restful; when he wakes the next morning, he will find Maka snoring softly at his bedside, her hand wrapped delicately around his.

* * *

BEHOLD as I wrap up my first (terrifying) attempt to write Soul Eater fiction by means of DEUS EX MACHINA!

(Dream sequences make me squick and here I am writing one. Fricklewinkies.)

I'll get a handle on these characters eventually.

Until then, people, we need MORE fandom love for this fantastic show/manga.

Damn it.

I'm off to the cheez-it-and-hummus outlet.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!


	2. only because

PORN because I wanted to.

Also because of the SE Kink Meme on the Shibusen LJ. They wanted Maka and Soul to get it on in a public place.

And I thought...where better to do that than a dingy alley after a battle?

Nowhere, clearly.

On a technical note: there are some rough, strange transitions and abrupt thematic devices inserted a bit late into the fic, and if you've got a way to constructively suggest how to fix them, I am all ears. Pleaseplease and thank you. Otherwise, grin and bear it? Pretty pleasings.

Finally, I envisaged this as taking place sometime after the Shibusen gang take out all their current manga villains, and _ideally_ they'd be of consenting age to undertake the sexitiemz, but you pervs out there are more than welcome to do with their ages what you will (hopefully no one is in to kidlet porn, though...).

Weeeeeeee!

DOI.

* * *

**only because**

Only because he was heady with victory, exhilarated, thrilled to have narrowly escaped excruciating death (_again_; they're Close-Scrape Specialists), half-wild with adrenaline, and pleasantly sated from the uniformly airy-sweet-electric-warmth of four pre-kishin souls; only because they hadn't seen this much excitement since they'd put down Arachne and the Kishin and Medusa and all their attendant lackeys; only because he was ecstatic that she was whole, that she was (largely) unhurt (if not looking very, _very_ worn), that she was _alive_, and that she looked –at this very moment—so indisputably _cut-ass rugged_ (proud, fierce, lethal) and almost _aglow_ (the moss of her eyes _burned_, brilliant, caught somewhere between apple and pine and jade, and the effect was stunning) from her –_their_—triumph; only because he was Soul and she was Maka and there hadn't been a question for some time what the relative distance between them should be—

Soul morphed from blade to boy in the space of a heartbeat (their heartbeat, synchronously pounding), and Maka had only time to blink in comprehension before he had her against the wall of the alley, fingers becoming momentarily razor-sharp edges to –quite literally—rend the clothes from her body (she was going to hurt him very badly for the lack of forethought after this was over, his subconscious niggled, before he very promptly quashed thinking altogether), mouth rapacious and greedily exploratory against hers.

Maka was hardly unreceptive; she left the well-traveled cavern of his mouth rather quickly for his throat, which she attacked with tongue and teeth with maddening aplomb and frenzied proficiency (he had learned to appreciate her attentiveness to detail, her desire to excel, her need to be _the best_--), and no sooner did he have her out of her skirt and panties (silk, from Liz, patterned with gawky toucans and distended rhinos courtesy of Patti and oh, he was in so much trouble later, such good_, good_ trouble--) than she was thrusting her hips eagerly against his, apparently entirely unfazed by (or unaware of, even more shocking) late-night cabaret patrons as they filed by Soul and Maka's dimly-lit spontaneous tryst space, laughing and whispering and gasping in shock as Maka heralded their location with her hoarse, brazen, _loud_ encouragement.

He wasted no time shrugging out of his pants, grinning lewdly at her as she pulled her head back to regard him, pigtails (no longer a feature he associated with puerile fashion or girlish sentiment; in the intervening years he had discovered _all manner_ of interesting uses for those dangling locks) matted and damp with sweat, adhering to flushed cheeks and the margins of her bruised mouth, pulling his attention away from the heat of the moment for an instant while he puzzled over the inexplicable allure of those perspiration-engendered whorls.

He wasn't long for the minutiae, however; the beat had slowed but had by no means diminished in intensity. Warm hands found his jaw, tangled gently in his snowy hair, trained his gaze to the verdant insinuation in hers, and without breaking eye contact, he lifted her against him, hoisting her effortlessly and brushing his fingers intimately across the length of her thighs as he cinched them tight around his waist. She shuddered violently as he slid into her utterly without preamble, biting her lip in a vain attempt to keep from making too much noise (an irony which he would have the time to reflect upon and tease her about later, when he was again capable of connecting images and sound with their accordant thought and meanings), her eyes clenching shut and her head ducking forward under the weight of the agonizing pleasure building within her.

Soul had learned long ago how well they fitted together, how perfectly fashioned the one was for the other; what he marveled at now was the way he could play with their respective dynamics –how he could invert their roles as weapon and meister and wield _her_, pull and push and otherwise manipulate the movement of her body to produce optimum resonance, more potent and impressive harmony, his soul commingling with hers for maximum effect. He _liked_ to be the one responsible for turning his unbending, tenacious partner into so much pliable putty for him to mold as he pleased, _enjoyed_ watching Maka, the unstoppable –and occasionally pigheaded—force of nature, transposed into this tantalizing, sinuous _woman_ he sometimes needed so badly it _ached_.

His Maka was not meek by any means, though, and as often as he was in control of her, she commanded him with equal fervor and delight. Just as in battle there was a confluence of mutual power between them, a system involving constant counterbalance, adjustment, and compensation, one was never more important than the other, and it was their intimate recognition of this truth that made them so perfectly compatible.

He fought to keep his feet when she grabbed his shoulders for leverage and _twisted_, inciting a pleasure so intense he couldn't _see_ for one frantic moment, and she laughed breathlessly when he overbalanced and spun them both painfully into the wall (which, he realized with vague revulsion, was slick with grime). He was almost angry until she started to move again, this time with decided abandon, and then he could hardly process anything other than the anguish of the ecstasy developing more quickly than he could control, and the sound of Maka's voice, desperate, broken, _glorious_ all around him, bouncing off of walls and ricocheting violently off the walls of his skull.

His hands rocked her forcefully at the waist while hers alternatively raked across his back and combed painfully through his hair, and the crescendo of their melody steadily climbed until Soul captured one of her pert breasts between the serrated edges of his teeth, until Maka arched sharply and threw her head back, and then, together (because it was _always_ together, everything they did, from the mundane to the profound to the fundamentally human), they achieved perfect harmony.

* * *

**OMAKE!!**

And it was only because they hadn't bothered to be discreet that Black Star and his damnably impeccable hearing (as well as his stentorian sense of justice and his nigh compulsory need to come to the aid of those in distress –for the glory and attention just as much as for the unselfish need to Do Right by his fellow man) had come boisterously crashing around the corner, Tsubaki in hand, crowing his name at the top of his little lurking-ninja-assassin lungs.

It was the first time any of them could recall the azure-headed boy turning tail and _running_ from a confrontation.

* * *

Oh, Black Star. You rabid blue ball of (obnoxious) energy.

I love thee.

And blueberries. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.


	3. couch potatoes

Had this one-shot lying around in the archives and thought I might post it.

Why not, right?

So I slapped on a slip-shod ending and here we be, darlings.

Anyway. Off I go.

[don't own it.]

* * *

The first time it happened (and it was bound to happen again; the fact of it happening at all was a matter more of inevitability than chance or accident) was hardly planned.

It was just this: Soul was watching television (sort of –there was nothing _interesting _on and he was _bothered_ by the fact that Maka didn't seem to realize that there was another, perfectly good, currently _unoccupied_ couch right across from them), and Maka was reclining against his arm, propped up by a throw pillow and absently twirling a pigtail with her fingers, her eyes flicking absorbedly across the pages of some book he had no interest in discerning the title of.

It was the end of the week, no assignments imminently looming in their future, and laundry day, which was hardly an explanation for _his_ state of undress (boxers and two mismatched socks –normal weekend apparel) so much as it was for her, lazily content in one of his Shinigami-sama disco-themed t-shirts (which, while it had the desired effect of covering all the essentials, only just _barely_ did so; even at sixteen he was barely taller than she was), the hem just brushing against her mid-thigh.

This is not to suggest he was, in any conscious capacity, at all distracted, tempted, or even more than vaguely _aware_ of his meister's arguably suggestive attire; it was just _Maka_ for Shinigami-sama's sake, just a stick of a girl with unimpressive tits and a penchant for brash, spontaneous wrath which, by all accounts, would probably be reflected in his acquiring some debilitating brain malady before he was twenty-five.

And Maka, for her part, seemed wholly unaffected by it all; there didn't seem to be anything that really even _existed_ for her beyond the tome resting in her lap, against her knobby knees. Even from his periphery he could tell she was enraptured by the story (she had that furrowed-brow-pursed-lips thing going on), and briefly he wondered why something as pedestrian as her avid interest in a make-believe world would _bother_ him (almost as much as her inability to relocate to some other piece of furniture, where he didn't have to worry about any adjustments he wanted to make disturbing her –that book looked _heavy_, and he had no intention to see how well its spine molded to his skull) as much as appeared that it did, but he decided it probably wasn't cool to dwell on such things, so he picked up the remote and started flipping through channels, hoping the mindless action would distract him.

For a while, it seemed to be working; he was less annoyed with Maka and more determined to find _something_ worthwhile to watch, maybe _bother_ her, too, with the intensity of his focus on something other than her. He blinked at that thought and moved immediately past it; he was on a mission, after all.

Then she started fidgeting, first stretching the length of her pale legs (he might have happened to catch the way her toes curled, and if he heard the tiny, involuntary mewl that escaped her as she tensed and flexed, he noted it only as another distraction to be tuned out) until they encountered the opposite arm of the sofa, then scooting and crowding back against him to readjust her position, and the only reason he pulled his arm out from underneath the pillow was because he was tired of being her resting post, damn it, and if _she_ was allowed to get more comfortable, well then, so was he. (Admittedly, the way she squealed in surprise was kinda funny, but the indignant-flustered expression she flashed up at him from her new position in his lap was equally kinda terrifying.)

"Soul…" She began, and he heard the telling dull thud of a manuscript (soon-to-be-weapon) closing. It _wasn't_ panic that made him do what he did next, nor the echoes of what he could only guess must have been the distant relative of preservation instincts (which he had definitely tossed out the window after he'd become Maka's partner, and soon thereafter decided that he himself would suffer grievous injury or death before he allowed even her _feelings_ to be hurt), but there was also no forethought or planning involved, either.

It was just this: one moment he was looking warily down at his meister, unholy fury burning in the dusty green of her eyes, and the next he was impulsively gripping the collar of her (_his_) shirt, dragging her up and forward, and kissing Maka.

She made a startled sort of noise which he unconsciously compared with the mewling noise she'd produced before, and determined that the sound was an appropriate analogue for enjoyment. He hoped. She wasn't pulling away, braining him, or…well, really reacting at all, and he was just beginning to puzzle over whether or not that was a good sign when a different sort of dull thud sounded beside him (as if a book were being dropped against a sofa cushion) and then there was a tongue in his mouth and thin arms banded around his neck, and the suddenly wonderful-terrifying pressure of thighs against his hips.

He responded with a gravelly sound made somewhere in the back of his throat (he wasn't sure _where_, exactly, but it made him sound sorta fierce, and very cool), and then he was towing her forward, hands pulling the ties that made the tails out of her hair as she settled her slight weight against him, giggling unexpectedly and breaking the fervor of the kissing when his fingers teased their way up her bare spine. Undeterred, Soul angled right and attacked her neck, which had the equally unexpected (and _awesome_) effect of abruptly terminating the (admittedly pretty cute) laughter and arching her spine severely, so that the (surprisingly) enticing swell of her small breasts pushed against his chest. Smirking, he dragged his sharp teeth along the ridge of her jaw, feeling oddly light and slightly disoriented when the tension in her thighs released and she dropped back down, _firmly_, into his lap.

"S-Soul…" She slurred, her hands appearing on either side of his face when he thought he might solve this whole 'shared sofa' situation by throwing her over his shoulder and sprinting into his bedroom—"Maybe we should…maybe we should slow down." He wanted to protest, explain that they'd been taking it slow by _not_ having done this for the past three or four years, but he didn't want to go anywhere she didn't want to go, and if he had to wait…well, he had a perfectly useable shower in the next room, and her encouragingly immediate acquiescence to his assault, he decided, boded well for him in the future. He could wait. He could. Although this would make future laundry days pretty interesting…

"Hn," was what he said, in what he hoped was an appropriately flippant manner, before he leaned forward to kiss her again, this time more chastely, his hands dropping to lightly squeeze her hips underneath her shirt. He was ecstatic at his new privileges, and maybe even eager to explore how many she would afford him, how often she would do so, and in what company, before she smacked him in the face with a heavy book.

He opened his mouth to speak, intending to let her know a few things before she removed the pleasant press of her body against his, and got as far as her name before the door to their apartment smacked open to reveal the most powerful weapon in Death City.

Soul felt the blood drain from his face as Maka's father took in the scene before him, silent and stoic as he appraised the situation. It was the first time he'd ever seen the Death Scythe speechless, and he swallowed heavily as Spirit walked calmly toward them, neglecting to shut the door behind him. At the last second, he remembered to pull his hands out from under Maka's shirt, and then Shinigami-sama's weapon was staring him down from an approximate distance of a millimeter (Maka had leaned right with an absent eye-roll to accommodate this position).

"Papa…" She growled, warningly, right around the time Spirit pulled away and, in a strangely menacing tone of voice, quietly informed Soul that he had five seconds to _run_. "_Papa_!" He thought he heard Maka complain, but he couldn't be certain, because he was already half way down the hall.

* * *

Hn.

Make love to me sweet, sweet mocha-goodness.


	4. party digs

Here's another one-shot I had just lying around, gathering dust. ('Get up off yer damn ass and MAKE something of yerself,' I shouted at it, and it only rolled over and flipped me the finger. Damn whipper-snapper.)

(Two-for-the-price-of-ONE! Whooo!)

Haven't read the past few chapters of the manga, so if I've missed anything pertinent pertaining to Soul's family, then...well.

Oh, well.

This fic is idle speculation about Soul's lineage (or, more specifically, his madre) and is based on nothing but his clear disdain for his family name.

Anywho. Read on, yes?

Excellent.

[still don't own it. damn it. one of these days...]

* * *

**party digs**

It's _that _time of year again, and he can't even taste the dinner Maka spent most of the afternoon making for him. He's not being mopey; outwardly, he's still the same slacker-slouch 'cool' guy Soul Eater, but on the inside he's seven years old and he's knocked over a priceless vase in his desperate, aggravated flight from piano practice, and his mother is going to be _very cross_ about the matter when she finds out (and she will, she would even if his piano teacher _hadn't_ been a preening flatterer, one of the many, _many_ fawning denizens arrayed about his family name, ready to serve), and he is all nerves.

He ignores Maka's eyes as they follow him about the apartment, refuses to see whatever emotion she's hidden there just for him, but he is still trying –perhaps somewhat half-heartedly—to make it seem like it's not on purpose, that he's just lost in his thoughts and simply doesn't _realize_ the (almost palpable) concern she's casting in his direction.

***

Later that evening, when Maka's cinching the tie at his neck (because she adjusted it once long ago and has insisted on doing it ever since, not because he can't do it himself; how uncool would _that_ be?) and his abdomen feels so tight he's half-afraid it might collapse in on itself, they leave the apartment for Shibusen, and he pretends he isn't terrified while he wonders if anyone in this entire city has a normal relationship with their parents, or if severe, debilitating dysfunction _is_ the norm.

He's walking completely upright by the time they're halfway there; his posture has been gradually improving with every step they take toward the academy, and it's that final, almost imperceptible adjustment that draws the green of her eyes, flicking left and forward again in the same movement, so that if he'd known her any less than he does, he wouldn't have known to expect it and he'd have missed it altogether. She doesn't say anything and underneath layers of anxiety and antipathy, he's grateful.

He has that falsely serene look on his face (the one that makes Maka's lip curl unpleasantly) when he follows his partner across the threshold separating their world from _Hers_, and they slip unseen into a party that by all outward appearances seems perfectly normal, perfectly harmless. He pauses to let Maka hang her coat on one of the many available racks, and also to breathe (he keeps forgetting to do that), his eyes dragging the length of her in rich purple (the same color as his tie) as he focuses very carefully on inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling…

He does not like parties. They are fraught occasions whereat people are less apt to be truthful and more likely to be totally false; they are forced to dress up and mingle and be abide by fastidious social rules, avoiding faux pas at all costs and aiming, ultimately, to impress, to outshine. People titter about useless things and laugh at stupid jokes, they mill about like so much cattle and pretend to each others' faces that they're someone they would _hate_ to be everyday, and everybody smiles about it because they've accepted this behavior as okay, as _normal_. And even if at Shibusen, at parties with his peers, in the absence of adults who aren't their teachers, the atmosphere is slightly different, maybe even more enjoyable, they are at heart still parties, and Soul _does not like parties_ because they are all reflections of functions such as these, when he will be put on display, when _Maka _will be put on display, when they will both be judged according to what they do and say instead of who they are and how hard they are trying.

Maka doesn't ask him if he's alright, doesn't glare at him for being so closed and stand-offish, but she's not smiling, either, and it makes him blink at the unbidden realization that his meister has never been anything but herself at these parties, has never _needed_ to be. Even when she'd met his mother for the first time, even though she had no tits and a quick, foul temper and a slight build that suggested frailty, weakness, she hadn't simpered or bowed under the weight of his mother's blood-red gaze. Instead, Maka'd been all wry smiles and brows furrowed in challenge. (And that's when he had _known_ that he was looking at his partner, the other half to his whole.)

He's taken five steps into the massive ballroom when he sees Her, dark eyes the same color of the wine in her glass, mouth turned up at the corner in elegant condescension, the platinum of her long, flowing hair framing the ivory of her face as she regards whatever unfortunate creature has come to be standing before her. He can't feel his feet, but they're carrying him toward her anyway, as if they know that the confrontation must happen and there's no sense in trying to avoid it, and suddenly he hates himself, hates the way she makes him feel three inches tall and inadequate and uncertain, hates the way he _lets_ her.

And just as suddenly they're before her, and she's this malicious vision draped in expensive black-and-red (all the blades in his family are colored thusly) fabrics, and the smirk that scores across her face has a distinctively sinister quality to it that makes him feel uncomfortable and self-conscious.

"Soul Eater, darling." Her voice is a mellifluous knell, her eyes are piercing, sharp enough to cut glass as they slide over him and then flick disdainfully toward his meister, and this is all just too much; he doesn't want to _be here_, he wishes Maka could just be left out of this—

"Happy birthday, mother," is barely out of his mouth when Maka's tiny hand slips through his, and he has time only to register the way his mother's silver eyebrow climbs and (out of his periphery), the way Maka's mouth does, too, into a scheming sort of smile that is followed immediately by a hauntingly familiar howling sound somewhere near the stage—

"FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! IT IS I, BLACK STAR! I HAVE ARRIVED, LITTLE ONES, BUT HAVE NO FEAR. BEING EXPOSED TO MY BIGNESS IS HARD FOR EVERYONE THE FIRST TIME!"

Soul's mother is immediately, clearly unhappy with this turn of events, but Maka's hand is warm around his when, from the other side of the room, Death the Kid announces himself by way of a horrified wail, distressed from afar at the destruction Black Star is wreaking by the mere act of his introduction speech. Liz is already shaking her head, and Patty's bright laughter ricochets off of the people gathered around them, and they both follow automatically after their meister as he charges through the crowd to put an end to the natural disaster that is Black Star.

From there it's one disturbance after another: Ox and Kim and Jackie all show up, and Soul manages to catch a glimpse of Pot of Thunder (zapping mischievously at ankles and then scurrying away before she's discovered) and assumes her sister is there as well. Their classmates file in one after another, and even a befuddling white creature sporting a top hat and a cane arrives –rather noisily, to the raucous tune of _"BWAKA!"_—at some point in the evening, and creates swirling, inexplicable chaos wheresoever he goes.

When at long last he spares a glance at his mother, she is very nearly shaking with the force of her wrath, the vermillion of her eyes bleeding almost black, but Soul forgets to care when Maka leans against him unexpectedly and whispers,

"Your mother forgot to invite a few people to the party, so I thought I'd help out and do it for her."

He laughs because it's all suddenly very hilarious –_all of it_—and it's ironic, he thinks, that it's _here_ of all places that he realizes he loves Maka.

* * *

*ahem*

FRITO PIE.


	5. their duet

Parallelism floats my freakin' boat.

* * *

**their duet**

Sometimes it's simple. Sometimes he's just a boy and she's just a girl and they're just normal children in a dysfunctional world bereft of adults who will be straightforward with them and parents who will keep their promises and friends who won't be forced into madness to betray them.

Then, sometimes she's just reclining on the adjacent sofa, reading a book and tuning out his droll commentary about whatever programming he isn't actually watching on the television set.

Sometimes they're close friends with the son of a god and his long-suffering weapons, a (terrified) boy and a (peculiar) pair of sisters representing (probably) the full gamut of debilitating mental illnesses; more often they're chummy with a freakishly powerful imbecile and his doe-eyed, eternally-patient partner, a blue-bobbed (lost, grievously alone) ninja and a reticent (faithfully intrepid) young woman with her heart on her sleeve.

And sometimes they're students, respectfully acquiescent to arbitrary truths and eager to protect them, though occasionally (increasingly) they find themselves poised precariously at knife's edge, teetering at the brink of dark, terrifying knowledge, carefully concealed and threatening to shake the very foundations of their world (chaos encroaches ever-faster, rupturing or crushing altogether the convictions they've been made to hold as _Right_ and _True_ and _Good_).

Sometimes he's a weapon and she's a meister and he'll die for her and she'll do anything (_everything_) to make sure the need never arises.

Sometimes he's a resolved bit of essence in pinstripes and she's an unmistakable point of light garbed in darkness, and when she asks him to lead he takes her waist and slips his fingers through hers and tries not to puzzle long over the curiously _vivid_ coolness of her spirit flesh against his.

Sometimes he plays the piano in the theater of his own mind (with an audience of one, shadowed and sinister and hungry for the madness he _only just_ keeps at bay), and even as she wields him, she's moving to _his _melody (it is this: their beautiful-terrible, lethal promenade).

But mostly he's Soul and she's Maka and he's cool and she's tenacious and he slouches too much and her tits are too small and they're perfect for each other, and, well, that's all they really need to know.

* * *

I wish I _had_ a boat.


End file.
